Complete Works of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  If Johnnie had not had a crop, he would have been plainly on the side of the insurgents, but his crop staked him down to the soil at a point where the Spaniards could always be sure of finding him — him or his crop — it is the same thing. But when war came between Spain and the United States he could no longer be the cleverest trimmer in Pinar del Rio. And he retreated upon Key West losing much of his baggage train, not because of panic but because of wisdom. In Key West, he was no longer the manager of a big Cuban plantation; he was a little tan-faced refugee without much money. Mainly he listened; there was nought else to do. In the first place he was a young man of extremely slow speech and in the Key West Hotel tongues ran like pin-wheels. If he had projected his methodic way of thought and speech upon this hurricane, he would have been as effective as the man who tries to smoke against the gale. This truth did not impress him. Really, he was impressed with the fact that although he knew much of Cuba, he could not talk so rapidly and wisely of it as many war-correspondents who had not yet seen the island. Usually he brooded in silence over a bottle of beer and the loss of his crop. He received no sympathy, although there was a plentitude of tender souls. War’s first step is to make expectation so high that all present things are fogged and darkened in a tense wonder of the future. None cared about the collapse of Johnnie’s plantation when all were thinking of the probable collapse of cities and fleets.

  In the meantime, battle-ships, monitors, cruisers, gunboats and torpedo craft arrived, departed, arrived, departed. Rumours sang about the ears of warships hurriedly coaling. Rumours sang about the ears of warships leisurely coming to anchor. This happened and that happened and if the news arrived at Key West as a mouse, it was often enough cabled north as an elephant. The correspondents at Key West were perfectly capable of adjusting their perspective, but many of the editors in the United States were like deaf men at whom one has to roar. A few quiet words of information was not enough for them; one had to bawl into their ears a whirlwind tale of heroism, blood, death, victory — or defeat — at any rate, a tragedy. The papers should have sent playwrights to the first part of the war. Play-wrights are allowed to lower the curtain from time to time and say to the crowd: “Mark, ye, now! Three or four months are supposed to elapse. But the poor devils at Key West were obliged to keep the curtain up all the time.” “This isn’t a continuous performance.” “Yes, it is; it’s got to be a continuous performance. The welfare of the paper demands it. The people want news.” Very well: continuous performance. It is strange how men of sense can go aslant at the bidding of other men of sense and combine to contribute to a general mess of exaggeration and bombast. But we did; and in the midst of the furor I remember the still figure of Johnnie, the planter, the ex-trimmer. He looked dazed.

  This was in May.

  We all liked him. From time to time some of us heard in his words the vibrant of a thoughtful experience. But it could not be well heard; it was only like the sound of a bell from under the floor. We were too busy with our own clatter. He was taciturn and competent while we solved the war in a babble of tongues. Soon we went about our peaceful paths saying ironically one to another: “War is hell.” Meanwhile, managing editors fought us tooth and nail and we all were sent boxes of medals inscribed: “Incompetency.” We became furious with ourselves. Why couldn’t we send hair-raising despatches? Why couldn’t we inflame the wires? All this we did. If a first-class armoured cruiser which had once been a tow-boat fired a six-pounder shot from her forward thirteen-inch gun turret, the world heard of it, you bet. We were not idle men. We had come to report the war and we did it. Our good names and our salaries depended upon it and we were urged by our managing-editors to remember that the American people were a collection of super-nervous idiots who would immediately have convulsions if we did not throw them some news — any news. It was not true, at all. The American people were anxious for things decisive to happen; they were not anxious to be lulled to satisfaction with a drug. But we lulled them. We told them this and we told them that, and I warrant you our screaming sounded like the noise of a lot of sea-birds settling for the night among the black crags.

  In the meantime, Johnnie stared and meditated. In his unhurried, unstartled manner he was singularly like another man who was flying the pennant as commander-in-chief of the North Atlantic Squadron. Johnnie was a refugee; the admiral was an admiral. And yet they were much akin, these two. Their brother was the Strategy Board — the only capable political institution of the war. At Key West the naval officers spoke of their business and were devoted to it and were bound to succeed in it, but when the flag-ship was in port the only two people who were independent and sane were the admiral and Johnnie. The rest of us were lulling the public with drugs.

  There was much discussion of the new batteries at Havana. Johnnie was a typical American. In Europe a typical American is a man with a hard eye, chin-whiskers and a habit of speaking through his nose. Johnnie was a young man of great energy, ready to accomplish a colossal thing for the basic reason that he was ignorant of its magnitude. In fact he attacked all obstacles in life in a spirit of contempt, seeing them smaller than they were until he had actually surmounted them — when he was likely to be immensely pleased with himself. Somewhere in him there was a sentimental tenderness, but it was like a light seen afar at night; it came, went, appeared again in a new place, flickered, flared, went out, left you in a void and angry. And if his sentimental tenderness was a light, the darkness in which it puzzled you was his irony of soul. This irony was directed first at himself; then at you; then at the nation and the flag; then at God. It was a midnight in which you searched for the little elusive, ashamed spark of tender sentiment. Sometimes, you thought this was all pretext, the manner and the way of fear of the wit of others; sometimes you thought he was a hardened savage; usually you did not think but waited in the cheerful certainty that in time the little flare of light would appear in the gloom.

  Johnnie decided that he would go and spy upon the fortifications of Havana. If any one wished to know of those batteries it was the admiral of the squadron, but the admiral of the squadron knew much. I feel sure that he knew the size and position of every gun. To be sure, new guns might be mounted at any time, but they would not be big guns, and doubtless he lacked in his cabin less information than would be worth a man’s life. Still, Johnnie decided to be a spy. He would go and look. We of the newspapers pinned him fast to the tail of our kite and he was taken to see the admiral. I judge that the admiral did not display much interest in the plan. But at any rate it seems that he touched Johnnie smartly enough with a brush to make him, officially, a spy. Then Johnnie bowed and left the cabin. There was no other machinery. If Johnnie was to end his life and leave a little book about it, no one cared — least of all, Johnnie and the admiral. When he came aboard the tug, he displayed his usual stalwart and rather selfish zest for fried eggs. It was all some kind of an ordinary matter. It was done every day. It was the business of packing pork, sewing shoes, binding hay. It was commonplace. No one could adjust it, get it in proportion, until — afterwards. On a dark night, they heaved him into a small boat and rowed him to the beach.

  And one day he appeared at the door of a little lodging-house in Havana kept by Martha Clancy, born in Ireland, bred in New York, fifteen years married to a Spanish captain, and now a widow, keeping Cuban lodgers who had no money with which to pay her. She opened the door only a little way and looked down over her spectacles at him.

  “Good-mornin’ Martha,” he said.

  She looked a moment in silence. Then she made an indescribable gesture of weariness. “Come in,” she said. He stepped inside. “And in God’s name couldn’t you keep your neck out of this rope? And so you had to come here, did you — to Havana? Upon my soul, Johnnie, my son, you are the biggest fool on two legs.”

  He moved past her into the court-yard and took his old chair at the table — between the winding stairway and the door — near the orange tree. “Why am I?” he demanded stoutly. She made
no reply until she had taken seat in her rocking-chair and puffed several times upon a cigarette. Then through the smoke she said meditatively: “Everybody knows ye are a damned little mambi.” Sometimes she spoke with an Irish accent.

  He laughed. “I’m no more of a mambi than you are, anyhow.”

  “I’m no mambi. But your name is poison to half the Spaniards in Havana. That you know. And if you were once safe in Cayo Hueso, ’tis nobody but a born fool who would come blunderin’ into Havana again. Have ye had your dinner?”

  “What have you got?” he asked before committing himself.

  She arose and spoke without confidence as she moved toward the cupboard. “There’s some codfish salad.”

  “What?” said he.

  “Codfish salad.”

  “Codfish what?”

  “Codfish salad. Ain’t it good enough for ye? Maybe this is Delmonico’s — no? Maybe ye never heard that the Yankees have us blockaded, hey? Maybe ye think food can be picked in the streets here now, hey? I’ll tell ye one thing, my son, if you stay here long you’ll see the want of it and so you had best not throw it over your shoulder.”

  The spy settled determinedly in his chair and delivered himself his final decision. “That may all be true, but I’m damned if I eat codfish salad.”

  Old Martha was a picture of quaint despair. “You’ll not?”

  “No!”

  “Then,” she sighed piously, “may the Lord have mercy on ye, Johnnie, for you’ll never do here. ’Tis not the time for you. You’re due after the blockade. Will you do me the favour of translating why you won’t eat codfish salad, you skinny little insurrecto?”

  “Cod-fish salad!” he said with a deep sneer. “Who ever heard of it!”

  Outside, on the jumbled pavement of the street, an occasional two-wheel cart passed with deafening thunder, making one think of the overturning of houses. Down from the pale sky over the patio came a heavy odour of Havana itself, a smell of old straw. The wild cries of vendors could be heard at intervals.

  “You’ll not?”

  “No.”

  “And why not?”

  “Cod-fish salad? Not by a blame sight!”

  “Well — all right then. You are more of a pig-headed young imbecile than even I thought from seeing you come into Havana here where half the town knows you and the poorest Spaniard would give a gold piece to see you go into Cabanas and forget to come out. Did I tell you, my son Alfred is sick? Yes, poor little fellow, he lies up in the room you used to have. The fever. And did you see Woodham in Key West? Heaven save us, what quick time he made in getting out. I hear Figtree and Button are working in the cable office over there — no? And when is the war going to end? Are the Yankees going to try to take Havana? It will be a hard job, Johnnie? The Spaniards say it is impossible. Everybody is laughing at the Yankees. I hate to go into the street and hear them. Is General Lee going to lead the army? What’s become of Springer? I see you’ve got a new pair of shoes.”

  In the evening there was a sudden loud knock at the outer door. Martha looked at Johnnie and Johnnie looked at Martha. He was still sitting in the patio, smoking. She took the lamp and set it on a table in the little parlour. This parlour connected the street-door with the patio, and so Johnnie would be protected from the sight of the people who knocked by the broad illuminated tract. Martha moved in pensive fashion upon the latch. “Who’s there?” she asked casually.

  “The police.” There it was, an old melodramatic incident from the stage, from the romances. One could scarce believe it. It had all the dignity of a classic resurrection. “The police!” One sneers at its probability; it is too venerable. But so it happened.

  “Who?” said Martha.

  “The police!”

  “What do you want here?”

  “Open the door and we’ll tell you.”

  Martha drew back the ordinary huge bolts of a Havana house and opened the door a trifle. “Tell me what you want and begone quickly,” she said, “for my little boy is ill of the fever — —”

  She could see four or five dim figures, and now one of these suddenly placed a foot well within the door so that she might not close it. “We have come for Johnnie. We must search your house.”

  “Johnnie? Johnnie? Who is Johnnie?” said Martha in her best manner.

  The police inspector grinned with the light upon his face. “Don’t you know Señor Johnnie from Pinar del Rio?” he asked.

  “Before the war — yes. But now — where is he — he must be in Key West?”

  “He is in your house.”

  “He? In my house? Do me the favour to think that I have some intelligence. Would I be likely to be harbouring a Yankee in these times? You must think I have no more head than an Orden Publico. And I’ll not have you search my house, for there is no one here save my son — who is maybe dying of the fever — and the doctor. The doctor is with him because now is the crisis, and any one little thing may kill or cure my boy, and you will do me the favour to consider what may happen if I allow five or six heavy-footed policemen to go tramping all over my house. You may think — —”

  “Stop it,” said the chief police officer at last. He was laughing and weary and angry.

  Martha checked her flow of Spanish. “There!” she thought, “I’ve done my best. He ought to fall in with it.” But as the police entered she began on them again. “You will search the house whether I like it or no. Very well; but if anything happens to my boy? It is a nice way of conduct, anyhow — coming into the house of a widow at night and talking much about this Yankee and — —”

  “For God’s sake, señora, hold your tongue. We — —”

  “Oh, yes, the señora can for God’s sake very well hold her tongue, but that wouldn’t assist you men into the street where you belong. Take care: if my sick boy suffers from this prowling! No, you’ll find nothing in that wardrobe. And do you think he would be under the table? Don’t overturn all that linen. Look you, when you go upstairs, tread lightly.”

  Leaving a man on guard at the street door and another in the patio, the chief policeman and the remainder of his men ascended to the gallery from which opened three sleeping-rooms. They were followed by Martha abjuring them to make no noise. The first room was empty; the second room was empty; as they approached the door of the third room, Martha whispered supplications. “Now, in the name of God, don’t disturb my boy.” The inspector motioned his men to pause and then he pushed open the door. Only one weak candle was burning in the room and its yellow light fell upon the bed whereon was stretched the figure of a little curly-headed boy in a white nightey. He was asleep, but his face was pink with fever and his lips were murmuring some half-coherent childish nonsense. At the head of the bed stood the motionless figure of a man. His back was to the door, but upon hearing a noise he held a solemn hand. There was an odour of medicine. Out on the balcony, Martha apparently was weeping.

  The inspector hesitated for a moment; then he noiselessly entered the room and with his yellow cane prodded under the bed, in the cupboard and behind the window-curtains. Nothing came of it. He shrugged his shoulders and went out to the balcony. He was smiling sheepishly. Evidently he knew that he had been beaten. “Very good, Señora,” he said. “You are clever; some day I shall be clever, too.” He shook his finger at her. He was threatening her but he affected to be playful. “Then — beware! Beware!”

  Martha replied blandly, “My late husband, El Capitan Señor Don Patricio de Castellon y Valladolid was a cavalier of Spain and if he was alive to-night he would now be cutting the ears from the heads of you and your miserable men who smell frightfully of cognac.”

  “Por Dios!” muttered the inspector as followed by his band he made his way down the spiral staircase. “It is a tongue! One vast tongue!” At the street-door they made ironical bows; they departed; they were angry men.

  Johnnie came down when he heard Martha bolting the door behind the police. She brought back the lamp to the table in the patio and stood beside it,
thinking. Johnnie dropped into his old chair. The expression on the spy’s face was curious; it pictured glee, anxiety, self-complacency; above all it pictured self-complacency. Martha said nothing; she was still by the lamp, musing.

  The long silence was suddenly broken by a tremendous guffaw from Johnnie. “Did you ever see sich a lot of fools!” He leaned his head far back and roared victorious merriment.

  Martha was almost dancing in her apprehension. “Hush! Be quiet, you little demon! Hush! Do me the favour to allow them to get to the corner before you bellow like a walrus. Be quiet.”

  The spy ceased his laughter and spoke in indignation. “Why?” he demanded. “Ain’t I got a right to laugh?”

  “Not with a noise like a cow fallin’ into a cucumber-frame,” she answered sharply. “Do me the favour — —” Then she seemed overwhelmed with a sense of the general hopelessness of Johnnie’s character. She began to wag her head. “Oh, but you are the boy for gettin’ yourself into the tiger’s cage without even so much as the thought of a pocket-knife in your thick head. You would be a genius of the first water if you only had a little sense. And now you’re here, what are you going to do?”